


reduced to a thing that wants

by plaisirparkway



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: F/M, Jewelry, Mild Comeplay, Vaginal Fingering, alright so, come eating but like...also mild??, like one single reference to size kink but Nate is 6'4 what was I supposed to do? ignore it?, like the ring is part of it, masturbation but for an audience, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27804055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaisirparkway/pseuds/plaisirparkway
Summary: Even now, though her hair has blown up big enough to be a pillow, curls sweated out and smashed from all the time on her back, hips lifted to his, head tilted back against the sheets.She could waste weeks beneath him.or: Nate and the detective can't seem to get out of bed.
Relationships: Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell, Female Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Comments: 5
Kudos: 56





	reduced to a thing that wants

**Author's Note:**

> as I've said on tumblr (find me yelling about wayhaven at [adamsdimples](https://adamsdimples.tumblr.com/)) please welcome me to the lowercase poetic title club, even though the fic is only nasty smut. I've been preoccupied with Nate in rings for some time and had to finally just do something about it. lets get into it.

Nate looks at her. 

Like, really looks at her. 

She doesn’t think he means to do it, to make her feel stripped naked even in all of her clothing. 

For all her flirtation and bravado he sees _something else_. All the hidden things. 

And it seems like he’s _always_ looking. Trying to work something out. 

Even now, though her hair has blown up big enough to be a pillow, curls sweated out and smashed from all the time on her back, hips lifted to his, head tilted back against the sheets. 

She could waste weeks beneath him. 

She’s blinked her way awake slowly, face pressed into his soft bed, naked and covered haphazardly in a throw blanket. 

“Sorry,” Nate says, easing his way in beside her. “I meant to let you sleep longer.” 

He’s also still naked, stretched out in long lines and sleek muscles. She clears her throat and glances around. It’s easy to lose time here, in the underground place he calls home, and the lamplight is dim. “What time is it?”

His shrug is lazy. “It’s approaching evening. I expect you’ll want dinner soon.” 

Leigh laughs as they adjust. His hand on her hips are a suggestion, and she slides to tangle their legs, lay half her body on his. She braces up on the other elbow, so she can stare down at him. 

“Am I that predictable?” 

“You’re usually rather insistent about food.” 

She only hums and neither of them rushes to fill the silence. She strokes a careful fingertip over first one eyebrow and then the other, and they lift in response, a question she’s not sure she has the answer for. 

She strokes that finger down his nose, across the seam of his pretty mouth. She could spend _ages_ here. She wants to. 

Leigh leans down and he sits up and when they kiss and his lips are already open for her. She can’t be sure which of them makes noises first, but when she pulls away, his expression--dreamy, wanting--matches just what she feels. 

She closes her eyes when she drops to his throat. She scrapes her teeth over the skin there, tugs it into her mouth. Nate moans, then laughs and the irony isn’t lost on her either. She bites down harder, and he sucks in a breath. His hands find her hips, pulling her closer as she worries the mark she hopes to leave, and, in turn, soothes the sting. 

More biting, more kisses, more sting, more moans as she works her mouth across his collarbone and tricky fingers down between his legs, stroking him back to hardness. He sighs as she finally lifts her mouth to his ear. 

“I’m not hungry for dinner yet.” 

“No?” he asks, a faint note of teasing in his voice. 

He pulls her closer to him still, her body held in place by his thigh, arm wrapped around his neck, and the other working him stroking him. 

Nate swallows. “You could--” a huff, “--a little tighter--” 

She pauses. “Show me. Show me how you like it.”

She watches as something almost dark passes through his eyes, a liquid sort of something with no name. 

Time seems to slow as she watches him palm his dick. The size of his hands make a mockery of her own. The first stroke makes her hips jerk involuntarily, and she can hear how wet she is, sliding against the muscle of his thigh. 

She’s probably never felt so _carnal_ in her life, watching him. The dusky pink head, leaking needily into his own fist, long strong fingers curled around himself, stroking with a ferocity that makes her weak in the knees. The ring on his thumb winks in the light and that’s what makes her hips move again.

Can he feel it? The wetness between her legs, pressing against him, leaving itself on his leg? But she can’t _stop_ , its mindlessness, watching him fuck his own fist just so she can watch, so she can see the near brutishness of it. 

It takes her a long time to lift her gaze to his face and her mouth goes dry. She’s been watching him, his hand. But he’s been watching _her_. It’s only then that she realizes his other hand is dug into her thigh, holding her steady so she can grind against him. God, she’s fucking wet. 

She stutters his name, shocked as she’s pitched into a frenzy of desire. “I--I--” 

“I know,” he says, voice tight, low. 

If she doesn’t come soon, she might die, if he doesn’t come soon she will certainly lose her mind. 

“I want to see it,” she murmurs. “Let me see it.” 

He barely makes any noise, save a soft grunt, but his legs twitch as he comes, dribbling messily onto his fingers, dripping white down his brown skin. Leigh goes still with the shock of it, kissing his face as he comes down. 

With a gentle touch, she lifts his hand to her mouth. Something else shifts across his face. He might go to protest even, but it dies before she ever hears it. She laps at his thumb, the taste of him, a salty, bitter burst on her tongue. 

Nate seems unable to look away as she cleans up his mess. She slides his thumb in her mouth, slurping, cleaning where it lingers in the tiny ridge between his ring and his skin. The combination is strange, metallic and textured and sweet and sweat. But this is where she spends the longest, watching him think a thousand different things a thousand different times.

She releases him with a pop, and they fall silent again, both of them breathing hard. 

A second later, she’s on her back and arousal blooms fresh and hot in her gut. She knows he can’t be hard again, not yet, as he leans over her and hooks one of her legs around his side. Insistitent hands press her thighs open around him and they both watch as he sinks his fingers deep, and those fingers are sticky from him and her mouth and that stupid ring runs circles around her clit and he says: _do you like this tell me you like this_ and she comes gasping and _shaking_. 

It’s the steady weight of his body that guides her through it; his words: _you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, good good good_. 

And she’s _clinging_ to him, tight, so tight that they relax on the mattress together, one mass with four legs and four arms and two heads and she must be far gone because she can only think of Shakespeare and she’s still _twitching_ and she’s maybe never come so hard in her life. 

She wakes again, entirely unaware that she’d fallen asleep. It must be his turn to touch, to make lines in her flesh. There’s no real heat or intent, even as he strokes over her nipple. It's the same as him brushing her hair behind her ear, fingering the mole on the swell of her hip. 

He goes on so long, stroking her, that even as she melts, she tips towards embarrassment. 

“What?” she asks. She tries to make it sound irritated, or demanding, but fails, miserably. 

It’s a long time before he speaks. “Do you want the truth?”

“No,” she says, breezily. “I want you to lie to me.” 

The sarcasm lands, but he only gives her a lopsided little smile, before that fades too. 

“I was thinking that I’ll never have enough time. How silly of me. That _I_ would never have enough time.” 

“For what?”

He blinks long. “To be a competent enough poet. A skilled enough sculptor. A talented enough composer.” 

Leigh’s throat goes tight. She repeats: “For what?”

But he doesn’t have to say it. She knows, she knows. Instead, he kisses her softly, before rising and finding his way into a pair of gray sweatpants and a tee shirt. The stretch of his disappearing shoulder blades inspires another, impossible, spark of want. 

“Where are you going?”

“Surely you’re hungry by now,” he says, teasingly. 

She sighs. Definitely. Definitely hungry. “Okay, okay, I’m getting up.” 

Nate shakes his head and she’s floored again by just how beautiful he is. “Stay. I’ll bring you something.” He looks at her body so plainly, so blatantly that she can only chuckle. “Besides, I don’t think we’re done here.” 

Leigh sits up, her breasts naked and heavy with his gaze and from all his tender touching. “Hurry back?” 

He stares, and she knows there’s not only sex there and it’s a blow, a squeeze right around her heart. Panic and hope and something she won’t examine too closely beat blood in her ears as his expression shifts. It’s as if he’s finally figured something out, unlocked the puzzle he’s been working on. 

“I’ll be quick,” he says, eyes soft. “There’s no place else I’d rather be.” 


End file.
